Chapter 1 The Ignored Shadow
The ballroom of the Thorne Estate glittered like a jewel box under crystal chandeliers, every surface polished to reflect the wealth and power that pulsed through the room. Laughter floated above the soft strains of a string quartet, champagne flutes clinked in toasts, and silk gowns whispered against marble floors as guests moved in elegant circles. It was Victoria’s engagement gala, after all—the event of the season for the human elite who orbited the hidden vampire world like moths to a flame.
Isabella Thorne stood near the edge of the crowd, a glass of untouched champagne in her hand, watching it all with the detached calm she’d perfected over years of being invisible in her own family. Her raven-black hair was swept into a simple chignon, her silver-gray eyes scanning the room without lingering. She wore a midnight-blue gown that hugged her curves modestly, nothing flashy—nothing that would draw attention she didn’t want. Attention, in her experience, only led to whispers.
“Look at her,” someone murmured behind her, voice low but not low enough. “That moonlit blood of hers… it’s unnatural. No wonder Damien finally saw sense.”
Isabella’s fingers tightened around the stem of her glass. Moonlit blood. The curse they’d pinned on her since childhood—the rare genetic quirk that made her scent intoxicating to vampires, a siren call wrapped in danger. It didn’t make her one of them; it just made her a liability. A temptation. Something to fear or exploit.
She ignored the comment, as she always did, and let her gaze drift to the center of the room where Victoria held court. Her half-sister glowed in ivory silk, golden hair cascading in perfect waves, emerald eyes sparkling as she laughed at something Damien whispered in her ear. Damien Hale—tall, charming, ambitious. The man Isabella had loved for two years. The man who’d promised her forever just six months ago.
Tonight he wore a tailored black tuxedo that made him look every inch the rising star in the vampire court’s inner circle. His hand rested possessively on Victoria’s waist, and when their eyes met across the room, he offered Isabella the briefest, coldest smile before turning back to his fiancée.
Fiancée.
The word still tasted like ash.
Isabella had overheard the conversation earlier that afternoon in the library—Lord Harlan’s voice booming with approval as he congratulated Damien on “making the right choice.” Victoria was perfect: connected, beautiful, human enough to pass in daylight circles but willing to turn when the time came. No complications. No cursed blood to scare off investors or council members.
Isabella had stood frozen behind the door, heart hammering, waiting for Damien to defend her. To say something. Anything.
He hadn’t.
Now the ring on Victoria’s finger caught the light—a diamond the size of a small star—and Isabella felt the last fragile thread of hope snap inside her chest.
She set her glass on a passing tray and slipped toward the terrace doors. The night air would be cooler, sharper. It would help her breathe.
The terrace overlooked the city skyline, skyscrapers piercing the dark like silver fangs. She leaned against the balustrade, closing her eyes against the wind that tugged at her hair. For a moment, she let herself imagine a different life—one where she wasn’t the family embarrassment, where love didn’t come with conditions.
Footsteps behind her. She didn’t turn.
“Isabella.”
Damien’s voice was smooth, practiced. She hated how it still made her pulse jump.
“What do you want?” she asked without looking at him.
“To explain.”
She laughed softly, bitter. “Explain? You proposed to my sister. In front of everyone. There’s nothing left to explain.”
He stepped closer. She could smell his cologne—cedar and smoke—and beneath it, the faint metallic tang of vampire blood. He’d already started the turning process with Victoria. The thought twisted something deep in her gut.
“It wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” he said. “But Victoria… she’s the future. The council needs alliances. Your blood—”
“My blood,” she echoed, finally turning to face him. Her silver-gray eyes met his dark ones. “Say it. My moonlit blood makes me a freak. A risk. Better to marry the safe sister.”
Damien’s jaw tightened. “You’re twisting my words.”
“Am I?” She stepped forward, voice low. “You told me you loved me. You said the blood didn’t matter. That we’d find a way.”
“I meant it then.” His gaze dropped to her lips, then away. “But things change. The council—”
“The council.” She nodded slowly. “Always the council. Never you choosing me.”
Silence stretched between them, heavy and final.
Isabella straightened. “Congratulations, Damien. I hope Victoria makes you happy. I truly do.”
She turned to leave.
His hand caught her wrist. Not hard, but firm enough to stop her.
“Isabella, wait—”
She yanked free, eyes flashing. “Don’t touch me.”
He let go, expression unreadable. “Your father has plans for you. The bride auction—”
“I know.” Her voice cracked on the words. “Lord Harlan made sure I knew. A death sentence dressed as opportunity. Sell the tainted daughter to the highest bidder. Maybe the Vampire King will want a taste before he discards her.”
Damien flinched. “It’s not like that. The King chooses lovers, not—”
“Spare me.” She stepped back. “I’m done being your consolation prize. Enjoy the gala.”
She walked away before he could respond, slipping back through the terrace doors into the ballroom’s warmth. The music swelled, laughter rose, but it all felt distant, muffled.
Victoria caught her eye from across the room and smiled—sweet, triumphant. Isabella didn’t return it.
Instead, she moved toward the exit, heart pounding with a decision she’d been avoiding for weeks.
She wasn’t staying for the auction.
She wasn’t staying for any of them.
The night was young, the city alive below. There was a club downtown—exclusive, dangerous, the kind of place where humans and vampires mixed without pretense. A place to disappear for a few hours. Or forever.
Isabella slipped out a side door, heels clicking on marble, then onto the street where the cool air hit her like freedom.
She hailed a cab, gave the driver the address, and leaned back against the leather seat.
Tonight, she would forget.
Tonight, she would run.
But as the city lights blurred past the window, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something—or someone—was already watching her.
Waiting.
The cab pulled up to the discreet black door of Nocturne, the bass thumping through the walls like a heartbeat.
Isabella paid in cash, stepped out, and paused at the entrance.
One night, she told herself. One night to breathe before the world closed in.
She pushed the door open.
And walked straight into destiny.
The club swallowed her in shadows and crimson light, the air thick with perfume, smoke, and something darker—blood and desire. Bodies moved on the dance floor like liquid sin, and at the bar, eyes glowed faintly in the dimness.
Isabella made her way to the counter, ordered a whiskey neat, and tried to ignore the way heads turned as she passed. Her scent. Always her scent.
She downed the drink in one swallow, the burn steadying her.
Then she saw him.
Across the room, in a shadowed booth, a man sat alone. Tall, broad-shouldered, jet-black hair falling across his forehead. Even from here, she could feel the power rolling off him—old, controlled, lethal.
His head lifted.
Their eyes met.
And the world tilted.
Lucien Blackthorne.
The Vampire King.
He rose slowly, never breaking gaze, and started toward her through the crowd.
Isabella’s heart slammed against her ribs.
She should run.
But her feet wouldn’t move.
And when he reached her, when his voice—low, velvet, dangerous—brushed her ear with a single word—
“Mine.”
—she knew she was already lost.